


eye for an eye

by nighimpossible



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Desk Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Morality, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Spoilers through Episode 112, Statements As Sexting, Under-Desk Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 00:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighimpossible/pseuds/nighimpossible
Summary: "Statement of Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute, regarding things to come. Statement given direct from subject. Statement begins.”*Jon receives a different kind of statement from Elias during his time in America.





	eye for an eye

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own. I'm still working my way through season 4, and trust me, THIS PODCAST IS RUINING ME.
> 
> This fic takes place between episode 111 and 112 as alternate-ish canon.

America is...difficult, for a variety of reasons. Jon arrives in Chicago bone tired and jet lagged to shit. He doesn’t pretend to know what day it is, just focuses on tracking down Gertrude’s files in the single, strained hope that the Magnus Institute—that _ Jon _ can stop the Unknowing. The further Jon delves into preventing the apocalypse, the more he realizes that his predecessor had some kind of unnatural, unwavering flair for her work. Even in death, Gertrude bests Jon at every turn. 

Jon _ does _ manage to follow Gertrude’s tracks: first to Pittsburgh, where he tracks down what little information about Gerard Keay’s death there is to gather.

It doesn’t help that Jon feels _ physically _ ill. It’s beyond exhaustion—Jon’s _ been _ tired before, but this is different. For a horrible, sickening moment, Jon considers the thought that somehow, the Corruption had managed to weasle its way into some part of Jon’s soul.

A sudden shiver courses its way down Jon’s spine, and unconsciously, Jon’s fingers reach up to his cheek where the small, circular scars from Jane Prentiss’s silver worms still linger.

“No,” Jon says out loud into the emptiness of his hotel room. “It’s not—it’s not that. I’m just run down, that’s all.”

When nothing replies back, Jon flops down on the provided queen size mattress. The bed is not comfortable, but it is a bed. Jon has slept on worse perches. He glances at the window, and the sky is purple in its waning hours of light. Jon lets his eyes flutter closed, and when he wakes up, it’s pitch black outside. The clock on Jon’s bedside table reads six o’clock in the morning, and Jon groans as the knock on his door gets louder.

“Delivery for the Archivist,” a voice from outside calls.

“It is _ six in the morning_,” Jon argues into his pillow before managing to drag himself to the door.

Jon knows better than to accept random packages from evil looking henchmen—he’s done that song and dance before, thank you very _ much _ Breekon and Hope—but the small, kind-faced woman outside his door has a large yellow envelope in her hand and a bored expression on her face. With no sign of the delivery men from Breekon and Hope in sight, Jon accepts the envelope. It has the stamp of the Magnus Institute in a dark purple wax seal holding it shut.

It’s from Elias.

The note inside reads: _ To tide you over_, as written in Elias’s tidy script. Jon pulls out what looks to be the statement of Howard Ewing. Unconsciously, he reaches for his tape recorder.

* * *

Jon feels much better after the statement, however unsettling it had been: the migraine that had been pounding at the back of his skull begins to subside.

_ To tide you over_. What exactly is Elias implying? That Jon _ needs _ the statements to—to what, survive? To feel well? To feel _ good? _

Elias is doing something to Jon, and Jon _ knows _ this—knows that he’s being groomed for the Eye, or the Watcher, or whatever the _ thing _ that governs his life now likes to be called. The scary part is that he’s not sure when the grooming started. Was it when Elias hired him as lesser management at the institute, as a lowly researcher? Was it when they shook hands over his contract?

Or was it when Gertrude had turned up “missing,” and Elias had suggested to Jon that he might make a good fit? Or when he had left a box of empty cassette tapes on his desk with a simple note: _ This might work. _

Jon turns off the tape recorder with a decisive _ click_.

He doesn’t know when the grooming started, but Jon is sure now that he cannot stop whatever it is Elias has done. Anger bubbles in Jon’s gut at how he has been unmade, and he finds that he is grateful for the ability to _ be _ angry. At least the humanity he has left allows it.

Jon often dreams when he drifts off into unconsciousness, but the usual nightmares that plague him are absent this night. Instead, he dreams of faceless hands that touch him with surprising roughness and white teeth that bite down just hard enough to bruise. He dreams of two bright, haunting eyes that stare down at him from above and waits for them to blink. They never do.

* * *

Jon tries not to focus on his encounter with Julia Montauk, Trevor Herbert, and the thing that was decidedly Not Officer Mustermann. His flight back to England is for tomorrow morning. When Jon looks outside the hotel room window, he can see the Washington Monument in the distance.

The page with Gerard’s essence seems to burn a hole in Jon’s trouser pocket.

The conversation with Gerard had been illuminating and heartbreaking at the same time. Jon is too—too _ tired _ to think for too long about the entities Gerard had named. The Stranger, The End, The Spider, The Vast, The Lonely...Jon had scrawled out as many as he could remember, but his brain is fried and his body is heavy.

All in all, America remains difficult. The statement of Howard Ewing did indeed _ tide him over_, but now Jon is simply aching for another. He has a hunger that needs to be fed, a hunger Jon never _ wanted_, never asked for. A hunger that must be sated.

Jon can’t help but think that’s not quite right. He’s always _ been _ an inquisitive person, even as a child. Precocious, exploratory, excited about learning and discovery.

Jon wonders, darkly, exactly how long he’s been marked by the Eye. 

“Delivery for the Archivist,” someone calls at Jon’s door.

The bored looking college student who hands Jon the small package has headphones on, so when he says, “Thank you,” she doesn't reply.

It’s postmarked from England, but somehow, Jon already knows it’s from Elias. _ The smug bastard. _

The cassette fits smoothly into Jon’s tape recorder. The tape is marked with Jon’s name in Elias’s neat script. When Elias’s voice crackles into existence, some tightness sitting at the back of Jon’s neck begins to loosen, ever so slightly.

“Hello, Jon. I figured you may need a bit of a pick me up after all that business with Ms. Montauk and Mr. Herbert. Just be _ sure _ to listen to the end of the tape, Jon. And _ trust _ me.” Elias’s words sound oddly charged, and Jon finds himself leaning in to catch every syllable.

Elias lets out a small sigh before continuing. “Statement of Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute, regarding things to come. Statement given direct from subject. Statement begins.”

Jon can envision Elias giving this statement: he’s certain that Elias is sat in his office for the recording, the dark green velveteen plush of his chair settling nicely beneath him as he reaches down and unbuttons the band of his trousers. Jon is also certain that Elias pays no mind to the fact that the recording is sure to pick up the sound of the slow, inexorable hiss of a zipper being pulled.

Jon’s eyes blink open with a start. Did he imagine that zipper sound or had he heard it?

“I suppose I’ll start by telling you that you’d look so good for me here, Jon. There’s a rug here beneath my desk, just waiting for you to kneel on. It would be comfortable. Comfortable enough.”

Jon immediately reaches out and pauses the tape recorder on reflex. 

“What the hell?” Jon whispers into his empty hotel room.

Jon presses play again and hears the quiet jingle of Elias’s belt falling to the side. “I know you’d like it.” It’s not a boast, not in the way Elias says it—like he’s already pulled Jon apart and seen his bitter insides. It’s just simple fact.

Jon blushes miserably all the same.

“Just like I know you’ll touch yourself while you listen to this tape.”

Jon’s hand is already half-way down his trousers, and he spits out a quiet, “Damn you.” Because_ of course _ Elias knows what Jon’s going to do, knows that Jon is going to be unfortunately, _ irrevocably _ into whatever Elias is offering. Elias has seen it happen, looked into the future and found Jon in this very hotel room—indisposed and aching. “Damn you to hell.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this, Jon,” Elias sneers over the tape, and his response comes quickly, as if in reply to Jon’s protestations. Jon hears the slow, slick sound of lubed skin on skin, just loud enough to be audible. “Someday we’ll do this in person. Someday you’ll be here, in my grasp, _ eager_. You’ll beg for my touch and Jon—because I’m a _ very _ generous man, I’ll give that to you. I’ll give so much to you.” His voice gets rough as he is clearly getting close. “And you’ll _ take it_.”

Jon whines out loud, gripping onto the bedspread next to the tape recorder with one hand, his knuckles white and tense. Jon knows he’ll take whatever Elias wants to give him—but Elias doesn’t have to sound so damn smug about it. Jon is hard in his own grasp, and it’s easy enough to match the slick tempo of Elias’s pace as recorded in the statement.

“You’re already so good at taking what I give you, Jon. Why not let this be just another thing between partners?” Elias’s voice is tight in Jon’s ear, a caress in everything but touch. “Between accomplices.” Elias lets out a slight huff. “Between two people who see each other for _ exactly _ what they are.”

“Shut up,” Jon begs, his own pace quickening. “Shut up, shut _ up_—”

Jon listens as Elias makes the smallest groan when he comes. “I’ll wait for you. Come on, then. Do it for me.” And then Jon is coming as well, hot and messy over his own hand.

“Humiliating,” Jon mutters in utter disgust.

“Superlative work as usual, Jon. I’ll be seeing you soon. Oh, and I suppose—statement ends.”

* * *

So America is difficult, but England is somehow worse.

“Fuck you,” Jon greets, slamming the door to Elias’s office closed behind him.

“Welcome back, Jon,” Elias says smoothly, closing the folder on his desk. “How was the flight?”

“Don’t talk to me about _ flights_—” Jon hisses, stalking forward and slamming the tape recorder down on Elias’s desk. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Currently? Sitting,” Elias says lightly. “But I doubt that’s what you’re asking about.”

Elias slides his chair back and uncrosses his legs before running a clean hand through his slicked back hair. Jon can’t help but look down at Elias’s feet and indeed: there’s the rug Elias had referenced in his...statement. It’s dark green, thick, and inviting.

_ No_, Jon thinks to himself. _ Have a backbone_.

“Or don’t,” Elias suggests.

“_Don’t _ read my mind,” Jon hisses back.

“I can’t help it if your mind is shouting every thought,” Elias snaps in reply. “It’s like you have a megaphone on its highest setting. I’m not trying to read you, Jon, not in the—”

“You killed Gertrude,” Jon bites out.

“Because she was trying to destroy our _ work_, Jon,” Elias replies.

“And Leitner,” Jon adds. At that, Elias’s eyebrow twitches.

“Perhaps an error in judgement,” Elias admits. “But we all make mistakes, Jon. Unless you’ve already forgotten the table and your _ axe_.”

Jon blinks and sees the Webbed table before him once more, the only thing holding the Stranger back from taking over the archives. Sees the blade in his hand. Remembers the feeling that if only he destroyed it, he could save Sasha. Save them all.

Jon had not anticipated the cost of that mistake.

“That is _ not _ the same—I was trying to do the right thing, Elias,” Jon stutters.

“So. Was. I,” Elias says darkly.

“I don’t believe you,” Jon says, a mirthless laugh escaping him.

“Do you want to leave?” Elias asks, scooting his chair further backwards from his desk, knees splaying wide enough to stand between. He still does not get up, but instead—seems to simply make room.

“I should,” Jon nods. “I really, really should.”

“But you won’t,” Elias nods appreciatively. “Lock the door, then.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Jon hisses before stalking over to the door and latching it closed. “You’re not in charge here. Not right now.”

“Oh?” Elias hums. “Are we playing pretend now?” When Jon finds the courage to turn around, Elias is slowly untying his tie with an elegant, graceful slide of silk on high end cotton through his collar. The slick _ hiss _ of fabric on fabric is—it’s—

“Come here,” Elias sighs, dropping the tie on his desk.

Jon doesn’t want to obey, is frankly _ tired _ of following Elias Bouchard’s commands. But his feet move forward of their own volition, dragging Jon towards Elias’s desk. Something in the sound of Elias’s demands brings Jon to full attention. 

“I hope you enjoyed my statement,” Elias adds lightly. 

It’s a dare. One that Jon takes.

“Shut _ up_, Elias,” Jon hisses before kissing him hungrily.

Jon crowds Elias up against his own desk, breaths in the scent of him—dark and heady and otherworldly in nature. Elias’s lips are soft and pliant, as if willing to kiss Jon like this forever. Elias runs his hands up and down Jon’s back, gentle and soft. His touch is rather unlike Jon had imagined it would be. Not that Jon has done a lot of imagining about Elias.

“Don’t lie to yourself,” Elias says soothingly. “It won’t make this easier.”

Jon stiffens in Elias’s arms. “What, _ exactly_, is easy about this? About _ you? _” He’s not even sure how much of a compulsion he puts into his words, but Elias shivers all the same.

“You have no idea how the compulsion feels,” Elias says with a low, unsettling laugh. “Well. Maybe you have some idea.” He runs a hand into Jon’s hair, the scratch of his fingernails against Jon’s scalp eliciting a quiet groan.

“I see what you are,” Jon breathes. It’s not exactly the truth. Jon sees _ some _ of what Elias is: elegant and cruel and organized and _ powerful_, too powerful to be left alone. He is too vast to be fully seen in his entirety. Not yet, at least.

“I’d be surprised,” Elias says smoothly, though the way his breath hitches as Jon presses his hips forward betrays his cool facade. “But then again, if anyone is going to surprise me—it would be you, Jon.” Elias grins at Jon with a tight-lipped smile. “Of course it would be you.”

Jon rolls his hips against Elias and lets out a quiet groan.

“Is this—is this what you _ want _ me to do?” Jon asks.

“Does that matter?” Elias tilts Jon’s chin upward. His hands are like ice. “You should do exactly what _ you _ want to do.”

“What if I wanted to kill you?” Jon asks boldly.

Elias laughs. “You don’t. You wish you did, but you really, really don’t.” Elias drags his hands down Jon’s back, nails sharp against his skin. Jon is certain he’s drawing blood. He doesn’t care. “You’re a bit disgusted, actually, with how much you like me.”

“_Stop it_. I don’t like you,” Jon mutters quietly. “I _ hate _ you. I hate what you did to me.”

“You love it,” Elias says darkly, grasping Jon by the jaw now and gripping him tightly, forcing Jon to stare into Elias’s piercing gaze. “You love this new power you’re only now discovering. Jon, you’ve only just dipped your toe into an ocean of possibility. You are going to wield _ such _ power.” There is awe in Elias’s voice that Jon did not expect.

“What if I don’t—don’t _ want _ to hurt people?” Jon asks, fisting his fingers into the front of Elias’s suit.

“Is that really true?” Elias asks.

“It is—” Jon vows, but he halters. “I want it to be.”

There is a long silence between the two of them before Elias finally breaks it.

“I felt like that, once,” Elias says simply. Jon is shocked—shocked that there was ever an Elias _ before _ the Eye claimed him. Shocked that Elias would admit the truth at all.

“When did that stop?” Jon replies, greedy for more information.

Elias is quiet for another long moment.

“I don’t—I don’t remember,” Elias tells him. Elias looks surprised at his own admission. It’s the truth, at least. That much Jon can tell.

* * *

The rug is comfortable to kneel upon. Elias had been right about that, at least.

Elias has a hand in Jon’s hair, holding him in place around his cock. Somehow, Jon knows exactly what Elias likes, knows to hold him at the back of his throat and just _ wait _ . They’ve been doing this for minutes or hours, Jon doesn’t know. Doesn’t much care, either. He is _ insanely _ hard within his own trousers, a wet spot appearing at the crotch of his pants almost the instant Elias put hands upon him.

The sound Elias makes as Jon gags is reward enough. Elias’s hair is a mess now—partly from Jon’s fingers, partly from his own sweat. It’s strange, seeing a man like Elias Bouchard undone. It makes Jon feel powerful.

“_That’s it_, Jon,” Elias groans, pulling out of Jon’s mouth as Jon gasps for air. Jon looks up at Elias from his kneeling position and with a thumb, Elias brushes away the wetness at the corner of Jon’s eye. “Very nice.”

“_Nice? _” Jon asks incredulously, voice raw. “I’m going for more than nice here.”

Elias laughs under his breath before nudging himself between Jon’s lips once again. “More than nice, then,” Elias says with a hiss. Jon can feel spit dripping down his chin. He doesn’t know how long he’s been blowing Elias, but his jaw is beginning to ache. In response, Elias holds Jon’s chin for support as he fucks his mouth sweetly. At last, he stops. “Come on. You’ve had a long flight, and we’ve been doing this for a while.”

Jon slides off Elias, his jaw crying out in relief. “What exactly do you have in mind, then?”

* * *

Jon is face down, bent over Elias’s desk. He would have collapsed on Elias’s rug about a half hour ago if not for Elias’s preternatural strength holding him in place.

“You’re easy for me, Archivist,” Elias says, slipping a third—or is it fourth?—finger inside Jon. Jon whines loudly, harsh and feral against the dark wood of Elias’s desk. His fingers are grasping crumpled papers, holding on for dear life. “You adapt. Learn. Change. All for me.” Elias crooks his fingers to pet gently inside Jon, which sends Jon into a near convulsive fit of pleasure against the desk.

“_Please _ please please,” Jon cries, his toes curling at the sensation. “I can’t do this much longer, I need—”

“You’ll come around my cock or not at all,” Elias commands, though he does not remove his fingers—simply continues the gentle motions against Jon’s prostate.

“I can’t hold on for much longer,” Jon whimpers. “You’ve been doing this for so _ long_, Elias. Please. It’s not fair—” Jon’s words are choked off as Elias adds another finger, stretching his hole just wide enough to make Jon nearly black out. He is the hardest he has ever been in his entire life, leaking and red against what he believes is Elias’s _ dayplanner_. And Elias does love his scheduling.

“_Fuck_,” Jon adds in a quiet, defeated tone.

“Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you, Jon,” Elias says, voice tight as he removes his fingers completely. Jon shouts out at the empty feeling for a single moment before he feels Elias’s cock settle against his skin: just, _ waiting_. Elias is clearly watching Jon for some kind of sign.

Jon looks up over his shoulder at the half-dressed man, pants around his thighs and shirt splayed open.

_ I want you to break this desk with how deep you get_, Jon thinks bitterly. _ I want to feel you tomorrow, I want to come and I don’t want you to stop—not even when I scream and cry for you to get out. I want to be ruined by you. I want to be ruined. _

He knows that Elias is listening, for as these thoughts go through Jon’s head, Elias’s eyes go wide.

“So ruin me,” Jon tells him bitterly.

Elias doesn’t stop: not when Jon comes white and hot across what he assumes is a variety of statements for the Eye to consume, not when Jon weeps openly and begs Elias to _ please _ stop. Jon is fairly certain that he blacks out completely for at least a minute, oversensitive at every thrust of Elias’s hips. When Elias finally, _ finally _ comes, Jon barely responds at the molten heat inside him.

Elias bites the skin between Jon’s shoulder blades, following the sharp pain with a soothing, gentle kiss.

“Jon,” Elias hums against Jon’s skin. “Jon, Jon.” He says Jon’s name like an incantation, like a spell he’s casting. Jon wouldn’t put it past him.

“‘S good,” Jon slurs. There’s a wet spot beneath his face, and he’s not sure if it’s drool or tears or both. Elias slowly slides out of Jon at long last.

“Stay,” Elias tells him. Jon whines but nods into the table as Elias goes to get a towel for clean up.

Elias is surprisingly gentle as he cleans Jon. Jon is still achingly sensitive as Elias swipes between his legs with the washcloth and he jumps at Elias’s touch. “Easy,” Elias says, as if trying to tame a wild horse.

“Too easy,” Jon mutters. “Too easy for you.”

“You call finding you with a hardly reliable delivery service in two separate cities on another continent _ easy? _” Elias asks, amusement in his voice. “You know, amongst the other work I’ve put into you.” His finger presses ever so slightly into Jon’s hole, and Jon cries out. “But I think you’ve had enough for now, though.” His finger draws back.

Jon gets dressed clumsily, his collared shirt wrinkled and stained. It’s no use—he’ll have to have everything sent to the cleaners and hope the kind old man who does his pressing doesn’t ask questions. He hasn’t asked about the blood stains before. Hopefully he won’t ask about this either.

“Come here,” Elias sighs, still looking utterly debauched. Jon stumbles forward and Elias wraps the silk tie around Jon’s neck. With a few quick hand motions, the tie is neatly cinched within Jon’s collar. Elias leans in and kisses the corner of Jon’s mouth, light and quick. “Don’t you look sharp, now?”

  


* * *

  


“You look like _ hell_, Jon—what happened in America?” Basira asks plainly after Jon’s plan of _ sneak home and don’t get caught _ goes horrifyingly sour. 

“Yes, America was awful but informative,” Jon says quickly. “Now, if you’ll please just let me get to my new place and _ change_, I’ll be back within the hour—”

Basira nods before her eyes narrow. “Is that—is that Elias’s tie?”

“What?” Jon says smartly, hands drifting up to the silk that hangs from his neck unconsciously. It is still soft and smooth beneath his fingertips. “No. Definitely not.”


End file.
